


Fimbriae

by Riza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Wings, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riza/pseuds/Riza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's wings possess fringes along the edges of the feathers. Owls possess similar, singular characteristics, allowing them to hunt their prey at night, utterly silent. </p><p>Written for the tumblr Valentine's day fic exchange. Wing!fic, fluff.</p><p>Edit, several years late: holy fuck, I can't believe how many kudos this had. I know it's cliche, but I really wasn't expecting this. I didn't even consider this to be one of my better works. Thanks to each and every one of you who have read or commented or kudos'd it. It makes my week every time I see a kudos email in my inbox, and they keep popping up, even after all this time. You guys are the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fimbriae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatever--remains](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=whatever--remains).



> Just a warning: this does have some violence and kidnapping. Not enough that I'd have to use the violence tag, but enough that it might be trigger-y.

John has tried many, many times to come up with a word that fits Sherlock's wings. He has yet to find one. There simply is not one word in the English language that can contain everything about them.

He loves their color.

They are black as shadow, with the same iridescence as a peacock's feathers. Unlike John's, even the softest feathers, the secondaries and tertials, have a sharp angle to them. They are the wings of a bird of prey-- function over form, but showy enough to make an impression. The only soft parts of his wings are the down, and John has caught him plucking the down out before. Out of boredom, he claimed. John nearly exploded with fury at that, and made him swear never to do it again. It hurt, to see Sherlock's wings so bare and bloody. When the down grew back in John stroked every feather into place and called him a stupid git.

He loves the way they fit over his own softer wings, brown and speckled gray, the color of earth and stone.

He loves their smell.

They smell of Sherlock, yes-- of ivory soap and laboratory chemicals and London fumes-- but there is a subtler smell as well. When Sherlock's wings shift just slightly there floats over a scent of wood shavings and smoke and something else John just can't quite put his finger on. John breathes it in and feels safe, comforted. No matter what may lie around the corner, he is with Sherlock, and that’s what counts.

He loves their size.

They are not large, not at first glance. When folded up they look perfectly normal-sized-- that is to say, they can fit in the average coat's wing-slits without poking out in funny places or ripping the fabric. John has seen them extended, though. When he's interrogating a lowlife, Sherlock consciously spreads them out to make himself appear larger. Sometimes when Anderson is taunting him, they flare out slightly to the side. John's not sure if that last is because Sherlock is upset or simply because it's an instinctive reaction.

John has only ever seen them fully spread out once before, when Mrs. Hudson was kidnapped. He had comforted the shaken landlady and was talking with her outside, and Sherlock had come storming down the stairs and out the door with wings spread out as wide as they would go-- a little over thirteen feet, John guessed. As soon as Sherlock had caught sight of Mrs. Hudson, however, he had immediately swept his wings down, keeping them tucked behind his back and looking almost embarrassed at his own reaction. John had smothered a smile and felt sorry for the poor kidnappers.

That was then.

Now, John has fallen for a stupid, stupid trap by one of London's more ruthless gang leaders and taken to a rooftop. They have tied him to a chair, leaving his wings free, and begin to pluck the primary feathers out, one by one. It is agonizingly painful, like having clumps of his hair torn out by the roots. Meanwhile, the gang boss calmly explains to him, as though illustrating a simple mathematical procedure, how they would strip John's wings of their flight feathers and push him off the roof. No longer capable of flying, John would fall to his death. 

By the time they have finished with half of his left wing, John has almost passed out from the pain and adrenaline rush and the fear that he would never be able to fly again.

Until the door to the rooftop slams open, the handle flying off.

Sherlock is standing in front of it, illuminated by faint moonlight, coat blowing in the wind a look of terrifying fury on his face and his wings stretched so far out he looks like a vengeful angel.

John can't entirely remember what happens next. He remembers feathers and blood, and the feel of Sherlock wrapping him in his wings. When they're back at the flat, he knows tea and bandages and aspirin, and falling asleep tucked under glossy black feathers.

When he wakes up, Sherlock is still there, and they sit for a while.

Sherlock’s feathers brush John’s face every time he breathes, softer than kisses. 

He loves the way they're connected to a consulting detective-- the only one in the world.


End file.
